


How Does a Moment Last Forever?

by SherlockedCumbercookie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Child Abuse, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Eventual Johnlock, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Non-Sexual Slavery, Past Sexual Abuse, Slavery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suicide Attempt, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25148680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockedCumbercookie/pseuds/SherlockedCumbercookie
Summary: John receives a pet for his birthday-a pretty boy with bright eyes and a head of black curls.This was originally posted here but I deleted my old account.People were telling me to post it again so... here we are. The original story with just a few add-ons.This is not a 'hot' Sherlock fic. This is rather a teenlock story with sweet Johnlock romancePlease follow me on tumblr: sherlockedcumbercookie
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 33





	1. The Pet

**Author's Note:**

> There is implied child rape in this chapter. I do not condone rape in any circumstances at all. I do not condone slavery at all. 
> 
> You were warned.  
> Read at your own risk.  
> Don't blame me and say I didn't warn you, because I did.

“Little freak!” the guard screamed, striking the small boy over the head.

“Ow! P-Please, don’t hurt me!” the child cried, holding up his hands. Tears and snot streamed down his cheeks. He scuttled to get away from his attacker, crawling on bleeding knees. Fingers wrapped around his neck, yanking him backwards. He was flung against the wall, choking and gasping for air. “I-I didn’t do anything wrong!” he shrieked, muscles tensing in preparation for the next blow. “I want my mummy! Where’s my mummy!” He doubled over, choking on his own tears. He felt like throwing up-spewing the little food he had in his stomach all over his attacker. 

“Your mummy is dead, brat,” the guard said, reaching down and grabbing the boy by the shirt collar. “And I had the pleasure of killing her myself. Now, stop crying or I’ll gag you, do you hear me?” 

“M-Mummy! Y-You killed her?” The boy’s voice rose to a shriek. He wriggled in the guard’s grasp, kicking out with his legs and clawing at the man’s arms with his nails. “Daddy! Daddy! Come! Help me!” 

“Daddy’s not here to save you, is he, brat?” the guard mocked, his eyes glinting with greed. “Now shut up or I’ll do it for you!” He threw the boy down to the ground and pinned him with one foot, enjoying the helpless way the boy flailed around, trying to free himself. 

“W-What did you do to them?” the boy cried, his vision blurred from his tears. 

The guard brought his fist down on the boy’s head, momentarily stunning the child. “I said, shut up!” He grabbed a fistful of the tangled, black curls and yanked the boy’s head up. “If you even make a peep, I’ll gag you and beat you until you’re senseless. Do you understand?” The boy nodded frantically, his eyes rolling back into his skull with fear. “Good, now hold still!” 

He couldn’t fight as his clothing was torn away from him. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks as he endured this humiliation. Cold air met his exposed skin and he shivered. I want Mummy… Daddy… Myc… Redbeard, he thought, his entire body trembling. 

The next moment, pain like nothing he’d ever experienced before rippled through his body. He tried to hold back the scream that bubbled up, but to no avail. 

“I said, be quiet, you little brat!” the guard screamed. 

Flashing lights…

A loud voice…

Pain…

The taste of blood…

He closed his eyes and laid his head down on the cool ground. 

Please let this be a nightmare. Please. 

Gentle hands were probing at him… lifting him from the ground. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” a kind voice said. “Shh.. shh… it’s alright.” 

*****************************************

Not so far away, another boy, just a year older than our previous character, was celebrating his ninth birthday with balloons, ice-cream, games, and friends. John Hamish Watson, the only son of prominent nobility, Lord Hamish Watson and Lady Elizabeth Watson, sat in the parlor, half-buried in a sea of wrapping paper and balloons. Hamish and his wife stood in the doorway, lovingly watching as their son tore into his gifts, giving triumphant yells as he held up each treasured item. “Our little boy is growing up,” Hamish remarked, brushing his wife’s cheek with a tender kiss. “It seems like just yesterday he was a tiny, red-faced baby in our arms.” 

“I know… the years have gone by so fast,” Elizabeth replied softly. “Oh, Hamish, did you get the gift?”   
Hamish nodded, his eyes twinkling. “I have a confession to make, though, Elizabeth,” he said, smiling. “I didn’t get the one we were thinking about.. I just saw this guy… doing an awful thing to the poor thing and I had to intervene. It’s young, real young. Probably younger than John. There wasn’t much information in its file. But it was cheap and I think, with some cleaning up, it’ll turn out just right for our John. You know how John is, always wanting to heal things and make things better.” 

“I’m not shocked, Hamish,” Elizabeth replied. “That sounds just like you. Now, he’s on the last present. You’d better get ours.” 

“Of course!” Hamish bustled away, humming under his breath. 

“Johnny!” Elizabeth called, stepping into the room. “Sit up on the couch. Daddy and I have one last present for you!”   
“Yay!” John exclaimed, clapping his hands in delight. “Come on, mates!” He gestured to his friends to take a seat next to him. “Mummy and Daddy always get the best presents!” 

“Alright, close your eyes,” Elizabeth said, catching Hamish’s eye. “It’s a surprise!” 

John squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his hands together, shaking with excitement. 

He heard some grunting and wire scraping against wire. 

He thought he heard a whimper-like that of a puppy, and he nearly squealed with delight. Had Daddy and Mummy got him a puppy? 

Something was placed in his lap. It felt light… but bony. He felt it with his hands. His hands met with soft locks-curls. He gently tugged on these and felt the thing in his lap twitch. “Daddy, can I open my eyes?” he begged. 

“Alright!” 

John opened his eyes. 

A pair of clear blue eyes stared back at him. 

There was a boy on his lap. Small, skinny, with unruly, black curls. His face was thin, smudged with dirt and blood. There were dark circles under his eyes. He wore only a shredded tank top and some boxers that were held up with a piece of dirty string. There was a silver collar around his neck and the tag read: Property of John Hamish Watson. 

“Do you like your new pet, darling?” Elizabeth asked, stroking her son’s hair. 

John gazed at the boy. “He’s mine?” he asked incredulously. His friends had dogs, cats, hamsters, and horses for pets but none of them had a boy! John wrapped his arms around the boy and pulled him close. He felt his new pet tremble in his arms and realized that it was probably scared. “Don’t worry, Pet. My name is John. I’m going to take care of you,” John reassured the poor thing. “It’s nice to meet you.” 

The pet lowered his head, tears trembling on the edges of his lashes. 

“Respond when your master speaks to you, slave,” Elizabeth said sharply, pinching the pet’s arm. 

Slave? What was a slave? Was it a kind of pet? “Don’t hurt him, Mummy,” John pleaded. “He’s scared.” He ran a hand through the thick, dark curls. The pet stiffly leaned into his embrace and buried its nose in John’s shoulder. 

“He likes you!” one of John’s friends exclaimed. 

John smiled. “Of course he does. He’s my pet. Aren’t you?” 

The blue eyes welled with tears and the lithe body melted against John’s body. 

“Does he have a name, Mummy?” John asked. A million names ran through his head. Lucky…. Sammy…. Charlie…. But, no, none of those names suited his beautiful pet. “Have you got a name, pet?” he asked the creature in his lap. When the pet did not reply, John frowned. “All pets have names. Don’t you have one?” 

There was no reply. 

Elizabeth raised her hand to strike the pet but John covered his creature with his body. “Don’t, Mummy.” He stroked his pet’s cheek, in an effort to calm it down. “It’s alright, pet. We’ll find a name for you…. A good name…” He looked around the room, searching for something that might give him ideas for a name. Then, his eyes rested on the picture of a gray cat on the mantelpiece. “Oh! I know!” he exclaimed, his eyes shining. “I’m going to name you Sherlock! That was my kitty’s name… but he died.” 

The pet lifted his head, his blue eyes a mixture of confusion and fear. 

“Do you like that name? Sherlock?” John asked. 

The pet wriggled closer to John and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Yes,” it whispered. 

John hugged his pet. “I’m so glad…. We’re friends, aren’t we?” 

He felt the head nod… the curls brush against his neck.   
“Why don’t you take the pet up to your room, John?” John’s father encouraged him. 

“Yeah! Come on, guys! I wanna show Sherlock my trucks!” John exclaimed, jumping up and upsetting Sherlock. “Oops! Sorry, pet! Here, give me your hand. Wanna see my trucks? I’ve got all sorts of trucks!” 

John’s pet slipped his tiny hand into John’s and nodded shyly. “Twuck?” he said. 

“Yep! Truck!” John said, clearly delighted. 

Soon, the boys and the rest of the partygoers were pounding up the stairs, followed by a smiling Mr. and Mrs. Watson. Sherlock stumbled and tripped in his attempt to keep up with John. The blond boy held him firmly by the hand, helping him climb the steep steps. “You’re really little,” John remarked, looking down at Sherlock’s short, four-year-old legs. 

“I’m four,” Sherlock said, holding out his hand to show John. 

“Oh! I’m nine!” John replied with a huge grin. “That’s okay though. We can still be friends. Oh! Here’s my room!” 

He opened a door that had various stickers and papers stuck to the front of it and led Sherlock inside. The room was perhaps the most wondrous thing Sherlock had ever seen. John’s bed was shaped like a car, with blue pillows and sheets. The windows had blue curtains hanging from them and the wallpaper had cars all over it. Strewn out on the floor was a huge racetrack with tunnels and loop-de-loops. Trucks and cars of various colors and shapes were set on the racetrack, ready to be played with. A huge chest in the corner of the room was overflowing with toys of all kinds. 

And right by the car bed was a little bed with matching blue pillows and sheets. 

“That’s your bed, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson said, pointing. 

Sherlock gripped John’s hand tightly as the older boy led him over. “T-Thank you,” he whispered, reaching out a hand to touch the soft silk of the sheets. This was his? This beautiful little bed with the soft pillows and sheets? He wanted to fling himself upon it and fall asleep and never wake up. 

“Here’s my kitty,” John said, pulling out a small tabby kitten from under the bed. “Her name is Daisy. She was one of Sherlock’s daughters. Wanna hold her?” Without waiting for a reply, John carefully placed the kitten in Sherlock’s arms. “Isn’t she pretty? Look, she’s got orange stripes on her tail-like a tiger!” 

Sherlock giggled as the tail brushed his cheek. “Pwetty,” he said and nuzzled the kitten with his nose. 

“All three of us will be friends-best friends! Oh, I can’t wait for bed tonight! I’m probably going to talk all night!” John exclaimed, sitting down on his car bed and bouncing up and down. “Hey, Sherlock, we need to have a secret passcode and handshake and-” 

“John,” Mrs. Watson interrupted. “It’s time to say goodbye to your guests. Come along.” 

She took John’s hand and led him out of the room before the blond boy could protest. Sherlock was soon left alone, still holding Daisy, who had fallen asleep in his arms. Although he was only four, he reflected on what had happened. He was still a slave and that was no fun but he was also a boy’s new best friend and the Watson home felt safe-safer than any place Sherlock had ever lived before. He wondered what the ‘passcode’ and ‘handshake’ thing was about and he was curious to see what other surprises were in store. Desperately, he hoped that he could stay here… perhaps forever. As long as John was here.


	2. Man Overboard!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A play date goes wrong...

“Okay,” John said, early the next morning. “We’re going to play pirates-”

“What are piwates?” Sherlock interrupted. 

John looked slightly irked but continued, “Pirates… well, they sail around on big ships and they have swords and they like to attack other ships and steal the treasure. After they steal the treasure, they bury it on a remote island and draw a map so they’ll always know how to get back to the treasure. Since we’ll be playing pirates, I got a piece of paper and a crayon for the map. But first, we need a treasure.” 

Sherlock listened, eyes wide with adoration, as John went on to explain how playing pirates worked. John plopped a big tricorn hat with a huge ostrich feather on Sherlock’s head and told him that he was the first mate and that he needed to pick a pirate name. Eager to please his new friend, Sherlock pursed his lips in thought, then said, “What about Sherlock?” 

“That’s not a pirate name, silly,” John giggled. “I’m going to be John the Yellowbeard, Scourge of the Seven Seas and Captain of the H.M.S Watson! Pick a name sorta like that.” 

“Okay…. Um…..” Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth, which he liked to do when he was thinking. “I don’t know. Maybe you can help me pick a name.” 

John’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief and he patted Sherlock’s big hat. “How about First Mate Sherhook?” 

“Sherhook?” Sherlock asked, confused. 

“Well… you’ll have a hook hand. That’s why we call you Sherhook.” John pulled out a plastic hand hook and slipped it over Sherlock’s tiny fist. “See? When the pirates lost their hands in battle or from a shark bite, they’d stick a hook in their hand.” Bending over the toy chest, John pulled out a few more items: another tricorn hat, an eyepatch, and a fake foam sword. “I’m going to have the eyepatch. I’ll be John the Yellowbeard, one-eyed fiend!” 

Mrs. Watson poked her head in the doorway. “Boys? You alright?” she asked. 

Sherlock edged closer to John. 

“Yep!” John exclaimed eagerly, not noticing Sherlock’s trepidation. “We’re going to play pirates! Can we take the boat out on the pond? We want to use it as our ship: the H.M.S Watson. I’ll be really careful! Dad taught me how to row and he says I’m really good.” 

“Only if Harry comes with you,” Mrs. Watson replied. 

As she spoke, John’s elder sister, Harriet (or Harry as she was better known) appeared in the doorway beside her mother. Harry, like John, had blond hair and blue eyes. She was thin, and would have been pretty if her mouth wasn’t always pressed in a straight, thin line. She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms across her chest and rolling her eyes at the boys. “Still playing pirates, John?” she mocked. “What a baby!”

Sherlock clenched his tiny fists and stepped forward, feeling a little braver. How dare Harry speak of John in such a way? John was no baby! He was kind, strong, and the most wonderful boy Sherlock had ever met. 

“I’m not a baby, Harry,” John replied calmly, taking Sherlock’s hand in his. 

“Harry, the boys want to go out on the pond in the boat. Will you go with them? I don’t want them drowning,” Mrs. Watson told her eldest child. 

“Oh my god… no, Mum! Seriously? I don’t want to! Can’t they go by themselves? I don’t care if they drown. The world will be a much quieter place without them,” Harry complained, her cheeks flushing light pink. 

“Harriet,” Mrs. Watson said in a warning tone of voice. “Just for half an hour. It won’t be long. Please.” 

“Fine.” 

“Thank you.” 

When Mrs. Watson had left, Harry turned to the two boys. “Alright. We’re going to be doing this my way. If we have to play pirates, I’m gonna be the captain.” She snatched Sherlock’s hat off and plopped it on her own head, then ripped John’s eyepatch away and picked up the foam sword. “You two will be my galley slaves and will row me around the pond. Come on.” With an air of command, she swept out of the room, leaving two very upset boys behind. 

“I don’t want to play with Harry. She always makes me be her galley slave,” John complained. 

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t even know how to row.” 

“Ugh. I’ll teach you. It’s pretty easy. Come on.” 

The boys made their way to the backyard, which wasn’t what you’d call a normal backyard. It was more of a huge meadow, complete with a crystal-clear pond surrounded by weeping willows, their graceful branches casting shade over the banks of the pond. Harry was down by the pond, standing by what appeared to be a little dock with a pretty blue row boat tied to it. “Ah, there you are, slaves,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and drawing herself to her full height. “Untie the boat and then help me in. If I get wet, I’m gonna throw one of you overboard.” 

Sherlock fingered the black leather collar around his neck and gazed at the waters of the pond, watching the little boat bob up and down in the small waves. He wondered if it was deep and he wondered if Harry really was going to make her threat true and throw one of them overboard. John nudged him. “Sherlock? Are you okay? Come, help me with the boat.” 

Because he was too small to work the knots out of the thick rope tying the boat to the dock, Sherlock sat on the dock and watched as John untied the boat, got in, and picked up two oars. “Come on, Sherlock. I’ll catch you! Just jump!” John called. 

Standing on shaky legs, Sherlock looked down at the boat and at John and then at the water. “I’m scared,” he whispered, sticking his thumb into his mouth and edging backwards.

“Oh, hurry it up, slave,” Harry said and, grabbing Sherlock by the collar, gave him a gentle shove over the edge. He landed in the bottom of the boat, shocked but not hurt. Harry jumped in after and settled herself primly on the prow seat. 

Sherlock picked himself up off the bottom of the boat and dusted the sleeves of his gray shirt off. Now that he was on the boat, it didn’t seem so scary. In fact, the rocking motion was really quite nice and, when he stuck his hand over the side, the water was cool and refreshing. Sherlock then realized how hot it really was outside and he longed to jump in. “Ooh! Fishy!” he exclaimed in delight, seeing a thin, silvery form dart under the boat. “John! Look!” 

“I see,” John said, struggling with the two oars. “Harry, take an oar please. Sherlock’s too little to help.” 

“Am not!” Sherlock said, sitting up straight so suddenly that he banged his head against Harry’s knee. 

“Watch it,” Harry warned. 

“Sowwy,” Sherlock mumbled, rubbing the sore spot on his head. 

“Go help the other slave with the oars, slave,” Harry commanded. “Whenever I call out ‘stroke’, you stroke. And if you’re not fast enough, I’ll throw you overboard as food for the fishes.” 

Food for the fishes? Oh no! Sherlock stumbled back, wide-eyed. “I don’t wanna get eaten!” he wailed, flinging his arms around John. “John… don’t make her make me into fish food!” 

Harry’s jaw dropped open. “Sherlock… that’s not what I meant. That’s just pirate speak, I guess you could say.” 

“Be careful, Harry. He’s little,” John reminded her, untangling Sherlock’s arms from around his waist. “He believes everything you tell him. Like, last night, for instance, I told him that monsters lived under the bed.” 

“Is that why it took so long for Mummy and Daddy to get to bed? Were they trying to calm him down?” Harry asked curiously. 

Sherlock looked at Harry with solemn blue eyes. “No like monsters. ‘Specially under the bed. No no no.” He waved one finger in the air, his expression dramatic and his black curls bouncing. “No like being fish food either!” 

“Well, look who’s Mister Sassy today,” Harry remarked with a huff. 

“I am not sassy,” Sherlock retorted, his hands curling into little fists. 

“Whatever. Pick up an oar and start rowing.” 

“Here, sit by me,” John said and he handed Sherlock one of the oars. “Dip it in the water like this… Oh, yes, see? You’re getting it. That’s right! Oops, don’t dig too deep with the paddle or you’ll catch a crab. Catching a crab is when you dig your oar in too deep and the oar flips you right over. It’s happened to me a lot! That’s why I’m extra careful when I row.” 

Sherlock gripped the oar in both hands and concentrated on dipping the heavy thing into the water. His arm muscles were burning, even though he’d only been rowing for a minute, and Harry wasn’t helping matters at all by calling out “stroke! Stroke!” repeatedly. 

“Faster,” Harry said, adjusting her tricorn hat. 

John dug his paddle in faster but with Sherlock still going extremely slow, the boat remained still, bobbing up and down in the water. “Did you hear me, you idiot?” Harry called, “I said faster!” 

“Shut it!” John said, apparently fed up with his sister. He raised the paddle in the air and brought it down on the surface of the water, causing huge droplets of water to rain down on Harry, who shrieked, her hat flying off and landing in the water nearby. “I’m gonna be captain now and you’re gonna be my galley slave!” 

Harry, her face bright red with anger, lunged for her little brother, narrowly missing him but grabbing onto Sherlock instead, shoving herself and him into the water. 

“Man overboard” was the last thing Sherlock heard before he was enveloped by freeing water.


	3. The Aftermath

Sherlock opened his mouth to scream but dirty pond water filled his mouth. He felt Harry’s arms around him loosen and he heard John screaming his name. A wave lurched over his head and the water stung his eyes, forcing him to close them. “Help!” he cried, splashing desperately, his feet searching for some sort of platform. Kicking his little legs, he struggled to stay afloat, feeling the weight of his shoes and clothes pulling him slowly under the water. More water got in his mouth and he coughed at the bitter taste. He was sure he felt a fish nibble his toes and he remembered what Harry had said about ‘fish food.’

Suddenly, someone’s arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him up out of the water. Sherlock choked and sputtered, spitting out his mouthful of pond water. He twisted his neck, trying to see his rescuer. It was John, his blond hair plastered to his forehead. “John?” he gasped. 

“Hold onto my back, Sherlock! I’m going to swim back to shore. Hold on tight, okay?” John instructed, helping Sherlock wrap his arms around John’s neck. 

“K,” Sherlock replied, shivering from the cold. 

Harry was sitting in the boat, having fished her captain’s hat from the water. “Do you need help?” she asked, her nose wrinkled in disgust. 

“Not from you,” John huffed as he paddled back towards the shore. 

When they reached the bank, John helped Sherlock up on shore, then staggered up after him, gasping for breath. Sherlock laid down on the ground, wet and miserable, his hands and face streaked with mud. His heart was still thumping loudly from his scare. John turned to him, his brow wrinkled with concern. “You alright, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock felt himself all over, checking for any cuts and bruises. “I think I’m okay- oh wait!” He clutched at his neck, which felt light and bare. “M-my collar!” he gasped, realizing what was missing. The beautiful black and silver collar that had been given to him the day he’d arrived at John’s house was gone, probably somewhere on the bottom of the pond. 

John looked out over the water to make sure the collar wasn’t floating. “Mum and Dad can get you a new one, Sherlock. Don’t worry about it. Ooh…. you’re bleeding!” John probed Sherlock’s forehead with gentle fingers. 

“Ouch!” Sherlock yelped, his hand flying up to his head. His fingers came away, sticky and red with blood. “I think… I think I hit my head on the boat when I fell out.” 

Harry had rowed to shore and she stepped out of the boat. Seeing the blood trickling down Sherlock’s forehead, her eyes widened. “Oh! Is he okay?” 

“It’s just a scratch, no thanks to you,” John retorted. 

Actually looking contrite for once, Harry walked over and touched Sherlock’s forehead. “Ooh… It might need stitches.” 

Sherlock immediately shrunk from Harry. “S-stitches?” he whimpered. “Don’t wanna.” 

“It’s not that bad, Harry,” John rebuked, rolling his eyes. He took Sherlock’s hand in his and squeezed it gently. “Let’s go inside, okay? You don’t need stitches. Mummy has bandages in the medicine closet that I can use to cover up your boo-boo. Harry, tie the boat to the dock and grab Sherlock’s pirate hat, please.” 

Once inside the house, the two boys were met by Lucy, a slave who served as a cook and a housekeeper. She shook her head in annoyance when she saw their sopping wet clothes and Sherlock’s cut. “What in the world were you doing?” she clucked, shooing them into the kitchen. “Here, wrap these towels around yourselves. I don’t want you to drip an ocean on my nice, clean floor! Oh, dear Lord, Sherlock, darling. Press this napkin to your forehead. There’s a blood trail…” Her voice trailed off as she rummaged in a nearby cupboard. 

Sherlock pressed the napkin to his head while John wrapped a towel around him. 

Mrs. Watson bustled into the kitchen just then, alerted by one of the slaves. She clucked nervously like a mother hen, hovering over John. “Oh sweetheart, are you alright?” After making sure that John was not bleeding to death, she turned to Sherlock and fussed over him. She looked at his cut and determined that it didn’t need stitches, much to Sherlock’s relief. “How did this happen?” She glared at all three children and Sherlock, feeling a little nervous, moved closer to John. 

Both John and Sherlock turned to look at Harry, who stuck out her tongue at them. “It was John’s fault,” she protested. “He splashed me with water and I tried to grab him but I accidentally pushed Sherlock into the water. I didn’t mean to, Mum! I only wanted to strangle John, not drown Sherlock.” 

Mrs. Watson shook her head in exasperation. “Harriet….” 

“I told him not to splash me and he did! I think you should punish him!” Harry said, her voice rising with anger. 

“John,” Mrs. Watson said, turning to John.

“It’s her fault! She was making us row her around and calling us her galley slaves!” John exclaimed. 

“Alright then,” said Mrs. Watson calmly. “Both of you stay away from each other for now.” 

Harry crossed her arms over her chest and smirked at John. 

“Is that understood?” 

“Yes Mum,” John said bitterly.

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. 

“Alright. John, take Sherlock up to your room. Harry, I heard that you have homework to do.” Mrs. Watson clapped her hands firmly and then swept out of the room. 

John sighed loudly and grasped Sherlock’s hand. “Let’s go get you some dry clothes and play cars!!!" 

They started down the hallway which led to the main foyer, which sported several beautiful houseplants in pretty pots and mahogany tables lined with photographs of the Watson family. Sherlock looked at all the pictures. There were pictures of John when he was a baby, being held in his mum’s arms. There were some pictures of Harry and John together, laughing. Some of the pictures were of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, holding hands and smiling. The pictures all looked very happy and suddenly, Sherlock felt sad. 

He couldn’t even remember his own mother or father. He wasn’t even sure if he had parents or a sibling. When he looked at the picture of John being hugged by his dad, he sniffed because he wanted to be held like that. John looked so happy and his dad looked so kind. Sherlock had never been held or hugged by anyone. The most he’d gotten was a kick to the arse and some curses directed at him. 

John followed Sherlock’s gaze and his eyes softened when he saw the picture of himself standing next to his dad. “Yeah, that was taken on my birthday last year. My dad got me a fish! When was your last birthday? Did your dad get you a fish?” 

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the picture and slowly shook his head. “No.. I don’t think I have a dad and… what’s a birthday?” 

John tilted his head in a curious gesture. “Surely you have a dad. All kids have a dad.” 

Sherlock shrugged his thin shoulders. “I don’t remember.” Wanting to turn John’s attention away from the subject, he gripped John’s hand and started to skip down the hall. “Let’s hurry! I claim the red race car!” 

“Hey! No fair!” John replied with a laugh and he took off after Sherlock.


End file.
